


Im Gonna Pay For This

by thiscityisinsidious



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Brooklyn Newsies - Freeform, Canon Era, M/M, Minor Violence, an over abundance of commas, and italics, race gets soaked but its not too descriptive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-29 14:44:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17205353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thiscityisinsidious/pseuds/thiscityisinsidious
Summary: Spot Conlon’s soulmate always had bruised knuckles, so, really, it could’ve been any newsboy that had injuries matching his. Of course, realization hits a little sooner than expected when Racetrack Higgins shows up at the Brooklyn Lodging House, beat to hell.





	Im Gonna Pay For This

Racetrack Higgins knew he shouldn’t have cheated, yes. Did that stop him? No, of course not, and now he was paying for it dearly. These Brooklyn boys didn’t seem to be Spot Conlon’s, as they weren't following the _Don’t Soak Racetrack_ rule so graciously put in place on his behalf. Since the creation of the rule, Race hadn’t been in many fights, and his soulmate had the luck of very few bruises and contusions on their face to match his. This particular evening, however, they wouldn’t scrape by with such luck.

“You’re fuckin’ lucky this is all you’re getting,” one, Race believed he picked up the name Buzz being said in between impacts, told him as he landed another blow. A few very long, very painful, minutes of being shoved into the wall of a seedy alleyway and slapped around passed, and by the end, Racetrack was still coherent enough to ignore all sense of self preservation and spit,

“Don’t get too cocky, I would’ve won eitha’ way. I don’ need cheatin’ to _win_ , nah, just lookin’ to make a pretty penny ‘s’all” 

_‘Least my last words were kinda badass, I guess,_ he thought, as another Brooklyn boy he’d cheated geared up to join the fight. 

“Let us have a turn, Buzz,” a third called from behind Buzz’s hulking figure. With little space between him and his foe, Race spat a fair amount of blood onto the concrete, and stood up on shaky knees. He knew he looked like shit, and he knew he was outnumbered, but like hell was Racetrack Higgins going down without a fight. The wall behind him steadied him, a saving grace, and also provided a surface for his head to ricochet off of as a meaty fist came launching toward his jaw. Buzz must’ve been wearing a ring, as Race could feel the skin of his jaw split, along with the back of his head as it slammed into the brick.

_Where does a guy get himself a ring at a time like thi-Focus, Racetrack, your head’s about to be pounded in, focus, focus_

A punch sent him sliding down the wall to a seated position, and one kick, two kicks, three sent him sprawling across the pavement. A few coins rolled out of his pockets and glinted in the slivers of moonlight between the buildings. Nimble fingers went reaching for the dropped coins, but his wrist was stepped on before it could get very far. The brutish Brooklyn bullies gathered the loose change on the floor and ducked out of the alleyway, content in their beating of the Manhattan newsie.

Forcing himself up to a seated position, Race pulled out the rest of his change, what he had made selling that day, and the winnings he still kept after his poker game. Despite the beating, the bigger boys had failed to regain what they lost, leaving Race with a fair amount to stick in his extra socks near his bunk tonight. 

_My bunk,_ he thought, _how the hell am I gonna make it back to my bunk?_

With great struggle, he forced himself to his feet. Brushing off what dirt he could, Race slowly limped his way to the Brooklyn Lodging House

— 

Spot Conlon had had, for once, an easy day. Headline was good, no boys had any major arguments, and he had the fullest stomach he’d had in a while. Hanging up his cap, he started to get ready to turn in early, when,

“Hey Spot!” A younger newsie called through the closed door, “Your Racetrack is here, and he don’ look so good eitha’, should we let ‘im in?” 

Crossing to the door and opening it, he brushed past the kid with an “Of course you should let the dumbass in, dumbass!” and took off down the stairs, failing to acknowledge the kid’s widening eyes at the spontaneous bruises appearing along his cheeks.

Down at the front door, he found none other than Racetrack Higgins leaning against the doorframe and looking beat to hell. _I can’t just have an easy night, can I?_

—

Now, Racetrack was not a total dumbass, and had this been any other borough, he would’ve tucked tail and ran—limped, home. This being Brooklyn, however, he turned to their lodging house. By whatever powers that be, he had hit the soft spot of the ever-feared King of Brooklyn, and was the only Manhattan newsie, or newsie in general, to do so. Protection, camaraderie, and a hell of a selling spot, not to mention the satisfaction of being Spot’s favorite, were the perks of such a feat. This being said, he sucked up most, if not all, of his pride and knocked on the Lodging House door. A boy around his age, BB, opened the door. 

“Damn Higgins, you ain’t lookin’ too hot,” he said, while signaling a younger boy to run for Spot

“You should see da other guy! But hey ah, I’m kinda seein’ two of ya’s, ya mind lettin’ a pal in?” 

A soft “Shit,” came from the stairwell as Spot took in Race’s bruised state. 

“Hey! Spotty!” he took a few quicker steps forward and swayed heavily, prompting both BB and Spot to rush over and place their shoulders under his arms. They wordlessly brought him up the stairs to Spot’s private room, Race being too dizzy from the movement to protest, and sat him on the bed. With a nod, BB left the room and shut the door.

“Jesus, Racer,” Spot sighed, grabbing his friend’s jaw and moving it side to side, “Th’ ‘ell did ya do to yourself?” Race swatted his hand away,

“Had some shadier fellas... _disagree_... with my poker methods, but Davey’s birthday is comin’ up and I wanted to get him somethin’ nice so I got a little desperate.”

“Yea you sure got somethin’ nice, a nice damn set of bruised ribs, and hey! If youse feelin’ lucky you might just be gettin’ a brand new scar on ya dumbass mug! Your poor goddamn soulmate.”

“Hey you know as well as I that theyse been gettin’ themselves into just as many fights, you seen the bruises on my knuckles ‘nd stuff,” Race mumbled back in return, eyes downcast. He knew, logically, that Spot wasn’t angry with him, rather than with the guys who soaked him, but his head was still hurting something fierce, so there wasn’t much room for logic. “I should prob’ly be headin’ back right about now,” he moved to stand up, and was shoved back down.

“Like hell you’re crossin’ that bridge right now, especially in the state you’re in! Kelly’ll figure out soon enough that you stayed here, now let me clean you up.”

The next few minutes passed in relative silence as Spot wiped the blood trailing from Race’s mouth and jaw, and bandaged up his mangled torso. His caretaking was surprisingly gentle, and meticulous. While Race knew he had been getting to see a softer side of Spot Conlon than anyone else, he never expected it to run this deep.

“I care about you, Racetrack,” Spot broke the silence, “I care about you an awful lot, so tell me, why’s ya makin’ it a point to get your ass beat on Brooklyn territory? Or at all?” Every voice in Race’s head, all of which sounded a concerning amount like Jack Kelly, was screaming at him not to mouth off to Spot Conlon, but his head was still pounding, and a large gash on Spot’s jaw had caught his attention, so he couldn’t help but retort

“Youse one ta talk, ya damn hypocrite,”

“What are you on about Racer?” Race reached his fingers out to lightly trace the cut that mirrored his own, on Spot’s jaw, “I ain’t fought in weeks.”

The gentle touch had surprised Spot, and realization clouded in his eyes. “Racetrack, you sayin’ what I think youse sayin’? You think we’s...” he trailed off. Gently, Race turned Spot’s wrist to see identical bruising from where the goon had stepped on him. 

“I _know_ we’s...” 

Race couldn’t help but laugh as he buried his head into the crook of Spot’s neck, “Oh God, Jackie’s gonna be _pissed!_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> First fic published on here! You can head to my tumblr @/bxnesof92 to tell me what you think or request!


End file.
